The Purpose of Fire
by owlcroft
Summary: In which is drawn a connection between a pine cone and a chili cook-off. McCormick gets sick, the judge breaks a sweat, and there's a recipe included.


Disclaimer: The two main characters in this story were created by others, who have my sincere gratitude for it.

A/N: Another STAR for Brian 'zine story.

THE PURPOSE OF FIRE

by

Owlcroft

Mark McCormick looked in disgust at the can of pork and beans he'd just taken from the grocery bag. "Aw, come on, Judge. You _know _I hate this kind."

"It's all in your head," muttered the judge distractedly. "They all taste the same." He continued to thumb through the mail they'd collected on the way in from the store. "Aha!" Hardcastle plucked one envelope from the batch and opened it.

"No, they don't." McCormick wrinkled his nose and set the can to one side, then reached into the paper bag again. "And the picture on this kind's got that big piece of disgusting fat on it. Yuck!"

Hardcastle quickly scanned the letter he'd taken from the envelope, then looked up. "It's salt pork. That's why it's called _pork _and beans and it's the pork fat that gives it the flavor. I don't know why you have to be such a picky eater."

"I'm _not _a picky eater! I'm . . ." Mark waved a hand in the air as he searched for the right word.

"Discerning?" said the judge sarcastically. "Perceptive? Discriminating?"

"Sophisticated," McCormick sniffed.

"Hah! Sophisticated people eat snails and frogs' legs and kidneys--"

"Pork fat, hog jowls, chitterlings," Mark chanted, then pulled another can out of the bag. "Next time, _I'm_ picking out the pork and beans."

"Look, you keep whining and you won't get to go to Tahoe." The judge folded up his letter, gathered up the rest of the mail and left the kitchen, pausing just a fraction to see if he'd be followed. He was.

"Tahoe? We're going to Tahoe?"

Hardcastle led the way into the den and tossed the stack of mail onto his desk. Turning to face the younger man, he clapped his hands together and smiled. "Yep. In two weeks. I ever tell ya about Roy Stannings?"

McCormick shook his head and dropped into the leather wing chair at the end of the judge's desk.

"Well, he was a friend of mine for a lotta years." The judge settled a hip onto the edge of the desk and clasped his hands on his knee. "Specialized in marine law, cases coming out of the ports all up and down the coast. He loved the water . . . ocean, lakes, streams." Hardcastle lifted his chin and stared into space. "Had a little place up in Tahoe, just a cabin really, but he spent a weekend there at least once a month. He'd just sit on the porch and look out over the lake and watch the birds and listen to the wind in the pines. Invited me up a few times. It was . . . amazing. Well, anyway," he brought himself back to the present abruptly, "Roy died about four years ago, heart attack. Every year since then, his family's held a benefit for the Heart Association in his name, and every year they come up with something different."

"Why do I get the feeling we're gonna end up selling cookies door to door?"

"Nope. This year they're having a chili cook-off and they've asked me to be one of the judges." Hardcastle grinned at McCormick. "And if you eat your pork and beans like a good boy, you can go, too."

ooooo

The judge strode into the Silver Nugget Hotel in South Lake Tahoe, carrying a small overnight bag. He spotted a woman in her forties, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, checking off items on a clipboard. "Jen!" he called. As she returned his wave, Hardcastle jerked his head at McCormick, who was lugging an enormous, bulging suitcase in behind him. "There she is. Bring that over here." The judge smiled and extended a hand to the woman coming to meet him halfway across the lobby.

"Judge Hardcastle," she beamed at him. "You old son of a gun, how are you? It's about time you showed up at one of these!"

"Well, you know I wanted to, but things just didn't work out 'til now." He shrugged in apology. "You know how it is, there's always something else that needs 'tending to. Last year I was up in Oregon, and the year before that I hadda be in Atlantic City, and the year before that--"

"It was me." McCormick elbowed the judge sharply, then held out a hand. "Mark McCormick. Hardcastle's excuse for not being here before this. Nice to meet you."

The judge nudged him back and waved a hand toward him. "Yeah, this is McCormick. He totes around the heavy stuff."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. McCormick. All right then, it's Mark. I'm Jennifer Stannings, but everybody calls me Jen." She motioned to the name tag on her t-shirt that read 'Hi, I'm JEN. Ask me about the Heart Association.' "Welcome to the Have a Heart Chili Cook-Off."

Mark looked at the mob of people crowding the hotel lobby. "The judge told me he's gonna be one of the panel of tasters for the chili. How many entries do you have so far?"

"Twenty-eight. Ten in the traditional category, six in the chili with beans category, five chili with chicken or pork, three chili with venison, and three vegetarian." She winked at the judge. "You better be hungry tomorrow night!"

Hardcastle rubbed his hands together and grinned. "Oh, I'm looking forward to it."

"Yeah," added McCormick. "He's been practicing overeating for days now. Well," he dodged another elbow from the judge, "I better get this suitcase of antacids up to our room. Pleasure to meet you, Jen."

As Mark struggled to get to the check-in counter, Jen reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a key. "Do you remember how to get to Dad's old cabin, Judge?"

"I _think_ so," he responded dubiously. "You take the north road outta town," he waved a hand vaguely, "take the road going off to the left through the stand of alders and then the first right. Right?" At her nod, he asked, "How come? You want me to fetch you something from there?"

"No, I want you to fetch _yourself _something from there." She handed over the key. "Dad wanted you to have that brass pine cone, the one you gave him." Jen lifted a brow questioningly. The judge nodded in remembrance and she went on, "We could have sent it to you, but I figured you'd make it up here one of these years, and might want to see the old place again."

"Yeah, I'd like that." He tucked the key into his shirt pocket and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "He tell you the story of that pine cone?"

"He did. And I think that's why he wanted you to have it back. Any time you feel like going out there is fine. Just be sure you're back by six tomorrow night." Jen glanced down at her clipboard and sighed in impatience. "One of our competitors still isn't here yet and we're supposed to show them the cooking area in ten minutes."

"We'll probably head up there tomorrow afternoon. I figured we'd take a look at the town, wander around the street fair, see the sights. McCormick's never been here before." Hardcastle checked the progress of the line at the check-in desk. "Where you want me to be at six tomorrow?"

"There's a big white tent down the street, sign in front says 'Chili Cook-off'. I'll meet you and the other judges there at five. That okay?" She looked at her watch and sighed again.

"You bet. I'll get outta your hair now. See ya then." He nodded a farewell and headed toward the desk, where McCormick was signing the check-in form.

He clapped a hand on Mark's shoulder, sending a jagged line through the signature on the form. "You 'bout ready for some grub, kiddo?"

"Are you serious?" McCormick looked at him in disbelief. "Shouldn't you be fasting for twenty-four hours or something?"

"Nah, I don't need any preparation." The judge gave him a superior smile. "I can always eat chili."

ooooo

The next morning was sunny, with just a few tiny puffed clouds dotting the sky. A fresh breeze kept the temperatures brisk and the street fair was in full swing by ten o'clock.

There were artisans selling hand-made pottery, goats' milk soap, macramé pot holders, watercolor landscapes, hand-knitted sweaters, metal belt buckles, throw rugs, jars of preserves and honey, jewelry, tie-dyed t-shirts, ceramic door-stops, sand paintings, and leather wallets. The next block had even more vendors. Mark marveled at the variety of food stands, which offered items ranging from the basic hot dogs and burgers to sushi and sashimi.

As they wandered past a vendor offering 'Genuine Hand-Made Clover Honey', Hardcastle noticed the enticing aroma of something frying and traced it to a booth just ahead of them. His eyes twinkled wickedly when he saw the sign advertising 'Fried Mountain Oysters', and he turned away from McCormick to hide an irrepressible smile.

Straightening his face with an effort, he turned back to Mark. "Hey, kiddo, it's eleven-thirty. I better have an early lunch with all that chili tonight." He cast a glance at the mountain oyster booth and the man inside it serving up fried morsels. "You ever had mountain oysters?" He plucked at Mark's sleeve. "I know you like fried oysters. Come on, my treat."

McCormick followed him and sniffed appreciatively. "So are they called mountain oysters 'cause they grow in the rivers up here or something?"

"You mean fresh water instead of the ocean? Nah," the judge winked at the server and handed over the payment for two orders. "That's not it. Here's yours." He handed over one of the paper boats containing several breaded, fried nuggets. "Go on, try one." Hardcastle popped one of his 'oysters' in his mouth and smiled in pleasure. "Mm-mmm. Haven't had a mountain oyster in years. Great stuff," he complimented the vendor and led McCormick over to the side of the booth.

Mark tried a nugget, chewed vigorously, and a funny look came over his face. "These are awful chewy." He swallowed, and looked at the rest of his serving distastefully. "These aren't really oysters, are they?" He looked at Hardcastle dubiously. "What _are_ these?"

"They're _good_," replied the judge, nearly finished with his portion.

"I'm not gonna eat these 'til I know what they are." Mark glared at Hardcastle defiantly.

The judge looked back at him slyly. "You remember we talked about how male calves become steers?"

McCormick nodded tentatively.

"Well," he gestured with his free hand at Mark's portion, "this is what ends up in the bucket."

ooooo

Hardcastle handed McCormick a paper cup of tepid water. "Drink just a little bit, real slow."

Mark sipped at the water, still pale and sweaty. He swished it in his mouth, leaned over on the wooden box he sat on and spat the water out, then sipped again and swallowed, cautiously.

"You feeling any better yet?" asked the judge anxiously. "I . . . uh, I _am_ _sorry_, ya know."

McCormick shook his head weakly. "How _could _you?"

"Well, it's probably altitude sickness, too." Hardcastle scuffed a boot on the close-packed earth in the alley. "I mean, not even _you _would throw up just 'cause ya ate a testicle."

"Could you _please _not talk about those . . . those . . . _things _any more?" Mark handed him the paper cup and stood up, keeping a hand on the wall beside him.

The judge emptied the cup, crumpled it up and put a hand on McCormick's elbow. "You think you can make it back to the hotel?"

"Yeah, if you don't tell me any more about . . ." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Actually, I don't feel sick any more. It kinda came outta nowhere and now I'm fine. I guess." He looked at the judge accusingly. "But this is the worst you've ever done. It's really not funny, ya know."

"No, it isn't. It was, though, for a minute," Hardcastle grinned, then sobered immediately. "Look, I won't do it again, okay? I guess the joke's gotten kinda tired anyway."

"_Kinda_." Mark kept walking, dodging the crowds at the various stands.

"So, you probably oughta have some toast or something," the judge pushed his Yankee cap to the back of his head. "Maybe a cheese sandwich? We can get room service to bring whatever ya want."

McCormick slanted a glance at him. "Room service?"

"Yeah. You pick out anything on the menu that you think you can keep down, and we'll have it brought up."

"You could've phrased that a little better," Mark said consideringly, "but I think I like it when you feel guilty."

The two men walked silently through the throng until they reached the hotel lobby door, where McCormick turned suddenly to the older man.

"You think _Frank's _ever had those? Maybe they can pack them to go?"

ooooo

"So, you got a creak in your neck, Judge?" Mark snickered.

The judge groaned at the old joke between them and shook his head, turning away to hide his smile of relief that McCormick was recovered enough to mouth off.

"You think this is real funny, huh?" grunted Hardcastle. His neck ached from craning over his shoulder to see the lane behind the truck, but the end of the narrow dirt road was just coming into view.

"Oh, yeah." McCormick snickered again, then said in a gruff imitation of the judge, "'This is the road, I remember that tree. See that, kiddo, that's a lodgepole pine.'" He checked his own rearview mirror. "Only another hundred yards to go. You know, you're getting real good at driving in reverse, Judge."

"Well, if that gate hadn't been locked, we could've turned around. And it _was _a lodgepole pine." The judge steered around a pothole and sniffed imperatively. "Just not the right one."

Mark let out an "oof" as Hardcastle misjudged the next pothole. "Come on, all pine trees look alike."

"No, they don't." The judge sighed in relief as he finally pulled back onto the hardtop. He stretched his back and neck, then gestured out the side window as he put the truck in gear and headed north again. "See that one? That's a fir tree. And that one, that's . . . hah! _That's _the _right _lodgepole."

He guided the truck carefully onto the dirt road and changed into a lower gear. "The cabin should be just up ahead around that little curve there."

"Wait a minute. Are fir trees pines, then?" McCormick shaded his eyes against the early afternoon sun and peered ahead. "There it is. Just between those . . . fir trees?" He pointed off to the left.

Hardcastle nodded. "Yep. That's Roy's place." He pulled the truck up next to a wooden shed, put it in park and turned off the engine. "Just look at that view," he said, waving at hand at the lake beyond.

The surface of the lake glittered and sparkled in the afternoon sun, tiny wavelets washing against the rocks that lined the shore. The rustle of the wind in the trees and the plashing sound of lake surf was all that could be heard.

"It's beautiful," said McCormick quietly. "I can see why he spent a lot of time up here."

"C'mere. Let me show ya something." The judge strode off into the trees lining the lane, pushed back his cap and reached up to a low-hanging branch. "See this?"

Mark approached with a quizzical look. "Yeah. It's a branch. A fir or a pine?"

"This is a Jeffrey pine. Smell." Hardcastle closed his fist over a cluster of needles. "Lemon, right? That's one way you can tell. And look at the cones. See how they're kinda purple?" He released the branch and looked around. "Now, that one . . ." he extended an arm to another tree and grasped a cone-laden branch. "See how the needles all point up? This is a red fir."

"How do you know all this stuff?" asked McCormick, still sniffing the lemony pine branch.

The older man smiled self-deprecatingly. "Same way I know a ponderosa's bark smells like vanilla. Roy told me." He chuckled briefly and headed toward the cabin. "We had a long talk about pine trees last time I was up here. Lemme see, gotta be five years ago now." He stepped up onto the wooden porch and pulled the key from his pocket. After unlocking the front door, he led the way inside.

The main room of the cabin was furnished plainly, but comfortably. A round wooden table in a corner, surrounded by four captain's chairs, obviously served as the dining area. Two armchairs flanked an enormous stone fireplace, and in the center of the mantel was a six-inch-tall brass pine cone.

Hardcastle took down the brass ornament and smiled in reminisence. "I saw this in the window of a little tourist place in Redondo Beach. It was the perfect thing for Roy." He stood looking down at the pine cone silently, still smiling.

Mark folded his arms and assumed a patient expression. "So, you gonna tell me or should I go out and smell some more trees?"

"Yeah, well," the judge rubbed his free hand across his nose. "Roy and I knew each other for a long time, I told ya that. We went way back. Didn't get together as much as we wanted, but he'd drop by the estate a coupla times a year and I came up here a few times." He held up the pine cone and gazed at it thoughtfully. "We knew each other pretty well, and we could always tell when something was bothering one of us, ya know?"

McCormick nodded and tilted his head interrogatively.

"So, about five years ago, just a year before he died, Roy strong-armed me into coming up here again. I was feeling kinda . . . depressed, I guess. You know, just stuff . . . filing for Social Security kinda makes a guy feel old. And I was starting to look at retirement and Sarah was spending a lot of time with her sister up in the Bay Area right then." Hardcastle looked around at the armchair behind him, then dropped into it. "Then there were a couple of birthdays that woulda been important ones . . ." He trailed off and stared pensively at the fireplace.

Mark lowered himself into the other chair, resting an elbow on the chair arm and his chin on his hand, waiting.

The judge turned the brass cone slowly in his hands. "So, I was going home to an empty house and eating a lotta TV dinners and feeling kind sorry for myself."

"What about your Fast Gun-Sidekick Plan?" Mark asked quietly.

Hardcastle snorted. "That? I was already getting all kinds of grief from people who thought I'd gotten into the loco weed. Stupid thing was, I started believing it." He paused and looked across at McCormick from under his brows. "Still do hear some of that, ya know. Just a few folks, the ones who can't admit they were wrong."

"Yeah, I know." Mark quirked a small grin. "They're really annoyed with me."

The judge grinned back and settled deeper into the armchair. "So, Roy noticed I was feeling a little . . . I dunno . . . useless, maybe. Like I'd just about outlived my purpose in life or something, and he got me up here for a three-day weekend. I didn't really feel like it, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. I guess I just wanted to sit around the estate and indulge in a little self-pity, but we came up here with a cooler of food and a couple of six-packs, and we sat on the porch and talked about stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah, fishing and mining law and politics and fertilizer." Hardcastle chuckled at the last item.

"Fertilizer?"

"Oh, yeah. We got started on what the best grass seed was and what to use on crabgrass and we had an argument over fertilizer that musta lasted over an hour. Roy was one of those guys who had an opinion on everything and had conquered the fear of sharing it with ya." He shook his head, still smiling gently.

McCormick shifted in his chair and leaned his head against the back. "So, did you talk about how you were feeling? I mean, being lonely and all?"

The judge nodded, then cradled the pine cone with both hands. "Yep. Roy started talking about the pines around here. He took me outside and pointed out the different kinds and how to tell 'em apart and how long it took for them to grow and everything. Then he said there was a kind of pine that grows along the coast. The Monterey pine. Seems that the Monterey pine has cones that are sealed up with resin. They don't spread their seeds the way the others do." The judge looked up questioningly and Mark nodded to show he was paying attention.

"See, most cones open up and the seeds fall out or get eaten by critters and that's the way the pines reproduce. But it takes a forest fire to crack open the Monterey cones. Then the seeds grow in the burned ground." Hardcastle hesitated for a moment, then added, "You following me, here?"

Mark smiled at him. "Yeah, I figured out a while ago this is one of those Pine Cones As Metaphor for Life things. Go ahead."

The judge cleared his throat gruffly. "Okay, so Roy pointed out that sometimes bad things happen, or things don't work out the way we want, but that maybe we should try to see things like that as forest fires." He shook his head disparagingly. "He didn't put it that way. He said it a lot better than I am, but you get my drift, right? That maybe we could look at trauma or disaster as a way to rebirth of sorts. A new chance, see?"

"Sounds like that could be hard to do sometimes, though."

Hardcastle took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Yeah, it is. But he was right, and I did try. And things did get better. Maybe I just got used to everything, like the idea of retirement. Or maybe it was a phase I was going through; you know, getting used to stuff being different." He shrugged. "Anyway, I kinda felt like I owed Roy something, for making me look at my . . . I dunno, my _future_ as not being so bleak and sad, but as an opportunity. A chance to accomplish something worthwhile, to achievesomething. Ah, I'm talking a buncha hooey here, but maybe you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I think so. But I never knew you felt like that." Mark leaned forward in his chair and looked at the judge solemnly. "That all sounds more like _me_. Thinking that the future was a big zero, and there was nothing to look forward to . . . nothing worth making any effort for, anyway. I used to feel like that all the time."

"Well, I guess we all feel like that sometimes." Hardcastle burnished the tip of the brass cone with his thumb. "When we're lucky, we got friends to help get us over those patches, though. And Roy was a good friend. So," he smiled just a little, "I gave this to him as a thank-you for reminding me that I wasn't done yet. That there were still things I had to do."

McCormick looked at his watch. "Speaking of things you have to do, it's almost four."

"Time we were heading in." The judge lifted himself out of his chair and started toward the door. "Let me just lock up. This," he held up the brass pine cone so that it shone in the afternoon sun, "is gonna go right in the middle of the mantel in the den."

"Give me a minute, okay?" Mark jumped lightly off the end of the porch and headed under the trees.

"What? Where're ya going?" Hardcastle locked the door and pocketed the key. "Whatcha doing?"

"Looking for a good pine cone," McCormick called back. "After all, I got a mantel, too, ya know."

ooooo

Judge Hardcastle took his place at the long table and looked around at the crowd, which was slowly assembling and finding seats in the audience portion of the white canvas tent.

Jen Stannings distributed sheets of paper to each of the five judges and made sure they understood the voting criteria.

"I know we've gone over this before, but just let me repeat it. Taste is most important, of course, but you should consider the other four elements of the rating system, too." She raised her voice as an announcement over the public address system informed the crowd that the chili judging was about to begin. "The appearance, texture, smell, and presentation of the chili are less important, but they should still be factors in your judging."

The grey-haired lady in the fluffy sweater at the end of the judging table raised a hand. "Who's in charge of monitoring the cooking?"

"I am," Jen replied, "and I have three helpers. We're making sure of the ingredients and that the chili will be finished and served within the time limits. Any other questions?"

Hardcastle looked casually at the other four judges, an interesting assortment of solemn-faced, dignified people ready to overeat in the cause of charity. None of them spoke up with questions or comments.

"All right, then." Jen waved a hand to one of her assistants waiting at the open flap at the front of the tent. She positioned herself in the center of the stage and spoke loudly to the crowd before her. "Our first category in the Have a Heart Chili Contest is Chili with Chicken or Pork and we have five entries. The first," she nodded to the man carrying a tray laden with five bowls up to the stage, "is Green Chili with Pork."

McCormick found himself a folding chair off to the side of the stage and settled onto it to watch the judging. Chunky Chicken Chili followed the Green Chili with Pork; then came servings of White Chili, then Chili Adobo and, lastly, Chili Chicken Casserole.

The judges took tiny spoonfuls of each, sniffing, examining, and, finally, tasting carefully. Mark snickered at the soulful looks into space each assumed as they concentrated on the various criteria involved. After one or two tastes of the current entry, before the next was announced, the panel conferred in a murmur and made notes on the pads of paper set at each place. After the last entry, they held a brief discussion then passed a note up to Jen containing the winner of that category.

She glanced at it, copied the result onto a page on her clipboard, and announced, "The next category is Chili with Venison and our first entry is Moose Chili."

Mark chuckled at the grimaces of disgust at the Moose Chili, then lifted himself out of the folding chair and strolled off in search of better entertainment. Close by the judging tent were the cooking areas, a few empty now that their entries had been submitted, others boiling with frantic preparations.

McCormick picked his way around to the rear of the cooking area and watched curiously for a while. One of the competitors seemed to be unhappy with the way his chili had turned out and was searching for a quick fix in the ingredients he'd been allowed to bring. Another turned her cooking unit to low, put a lid on her stewpot and sighed in relief. A third glanced around quickly, put a hand into the pocket of his jacket, looked around again, and surreptitiously withdrew a tin can, which he immediately put under the counter in front of him. He took a deep breath, re-checked the positions of the contest assistants, saw they were busy arranging for more serving trays, and picked up a can opener.

Mark sidled unobtrusively closer, staring steadily in another direction. The cook, a youngish man with short dark hair and a brushy moustache, fiddled with both hands under the counter, then lifted his stockpot off the burner and put it under the counter also. As McCormick watched out of the corner of his eye, the cook blocked his view momentarily, arms moving busily, then returned the pot to the flame and stirred it vigorously.

"Chili with Beans," someone shouted over the hum of the crowd. "All Chili with Beans bring your samples to me now."

The dark haired young man ladled some of his chili into five bowls, placed the bowls on a tray and carried the tray off to the entrance area of the judging tent.

McCormick instantly stepped over to the cooking counter and searched underneath for the can. He pulled it out, now empty, and read "McNulty's Premium Chili with Beans".

ooooo

Hardcastle wiped his forehead with a paper napkin and looked up to see McCormick jerking his head sideways at him.

"What?" the judge hissed. "I got three more Chili with Beans coming."

Mark held up the can and hissed back, "I don't think this qualifies as an 'individual ingredient', Judge. You got an entry with this in it."

Hardcastle scowled at him, sighed, then stood up and beckoned to Jen.

Jen frowned at him, then saw what McCormick was holding and her expression changed to one of shock. She stalked to the side of the stage and held out a hand. "Mark, where did you get that?" she demanded.

"One of your Chili with Beans entrants. He had the can in his jacket pocket." Mark looked at the judge. "I'm not sure I could swear I saw him put it in his chili, but I _know_ I can swear that he took the can, unopened, and put it next to his chili, and then the can was empty."

"Dammit," muttered Jen. "We can't have this, Milt."

The judge shook his head, looking at the can disapprovingly. "But it's just a charity event," he said slowly. "There's only ribbons being awarded, no cash, and you don't want to make a big stink outta this if you can help it, right?"

Jen blew out a gusty sigh. "Yeah, but . . . we have to disqualify him. The rules specifically say no ingredients combined previously, not even those canned tomatoes with chili peppers. And this," she took the empty can from Mark, "is egregious."

"Well, how 'bout this?" Hardcastle squinted at the back of the tent where the next entrant's tray was ready to make its appearance. "Maybe the guy's not happy with the way his chili turned out and he withdraws from the competition. We give him that way out and if he doesn't go along with it, we can announce that he's been disqualified for an unspecified reason. Let people think maybe he's not an amateur, or didn't finish on time or something."

"Is that his, Mark?" Jen nodded toward the next entry.

McCormick shook his head. "Nope. Next one."

"Right. Milt, thanks. I'll get you all started on this one and see what I can do about this mess." She stepped up onto the stage and announced, "King City Pink Chili", stepped back down, and passed the incoming bowls of chili on her way out of the tent.

Hardcastle took a deep breath, climbed back up and into his seat, and grabbed his spoon.

Mark took pity on him and said, "Hang in there. I'll be right back."

Less than three minutes later, Mark handed up a brimming glass of milk to the judge, saying, "Here. This is supposed to help with chili peppers."

The judge took it gratefully and whispered, "You got those antacids, too?"

ooooo

"He said it was just so he wouldn't be embarrassed at placing last, Milt." Jen snorted. "I pretended to believe that to save his face, but really I can't understand what kind of person would cheat at a charity cook-off."

The judge shrugged. "Aw, people get goofy sometimes, especially in a competition. You didn't have any more problems with him, though."

She smiled and shook her head. "No, all he wanted was to get his stuff together and haul out of here." She waved to McCormick over Hardcastle's shoulder, heaving luggage into the bed of the truck. "All in all, everything went fine. Thanks so much for helping out, Milt." She held out a hand to him. "Will we see you next year?"

"Um, maybe." The judge cocked his head and held onto her hand for a moment. "I hope so. I'll try to make it. And next year McCormick can be a judge and I'll wander around looking for underhanded chili cooks!"

"That's a deal," Jen laughed. "'Bye, Mark! We'll see you next year!"

McCormick waved at her with one hand, while balancing the overnight bag on the tailgate with the other.

Hardcastle turned to him and motioned to the luggage. "Come on, let's get going. It's already eight o'clock."

"Well, if _some _people hadn't overslept because they were awake all night with heartburn . . ." Mark grunted as he managed to shove both suitcase and overnight bag further into the truck bed.

"The absolute worst was the moose-meat chili." Hardcastle made a face and flapped a hand as if to chase away the memory. "It was gamey and slimy and . . . nasty."

Mark pushed up the tailgate, latched it and turned to ask, "Where'd you put your pine cone?"

"It's in the suitcase. I wrapped it up in a coupla t-shirts. Hey, where's yours?" The judge stepped around to the passenger side of the truck and pulled the door open.

"Wrapped in a towel in the overnight bag."

"McCormick! You stole a _towel_?"

"No, I took out the one _you'd _already stolen and wrapped up my pine cone in it." McCormick grinned at him and climbed into the driver's seat. "So, what was the pink chili like?"

Hardcastle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It was pretty good. It wasn't _pink_ or anything; they called it that because it was made with a certain kind of pink beans – King City pinks. I think we put it in fourth place. Maybe fifth."

McCormick buckled himself in and started the engine. "You know what I can't believe, is that you gave third place to a vegetarian recipe. It musta been pretty good for you to rate it that high."

"Yeah, it was. Not too spicy, lotta flavor, a good balance, I guess. Nothing really overwhelmed anything else in it." The judge pulled down the brim of his cap as the truck headed south toward the freeway. "It's funny. Some of those chilis were real good and some were . . . well, awful. But the good ones all had one thing in common."

Mark glanced sideways at him, then back at the road ahead. "They each had a five dollar bill under the bowl?"

Hardcastle shot him a look and said, "Ho, ho." He adjusted the windshield visor on his side and leaned back. "No, they all got the idea about chili. It's not supposed to be loaded with hot sauce and jalapenos and stuff. There's supposed to be other flavors in there, too. The hot stuff should help bring those other flavors out, to accentuate them."

"You been talking to that judge who wrote the cookbook, haven't you?" McCormick flipped on his turn signal and merged smoothly onto the freeway. The traffic heading south was sparse at that time of day and he pressed gently on the accelerator until it read 75. "'Accentuate', 'balance of flavors'."

"Well, she was right, ya know. The whole purpose of fire is to bring out the potentials of other stuff."

"I thought the whole purpose of fire was to break open pine cones," said Mark with a smile. He settled himself more comfortably and looked at the long road ahead with contentment.

"Yeah, well . . ." The judge pondered for a few moments. "Okay, how 'bout this? The purpose of fire is to bring about something new, a rebirth or a change. A flowering of taste or a potential for pine trees, a chance for something to grow." He grinned at McCormick. "How's that for sententious?"

"If sententious means hokey, then that's fine." Mark chuckled briefly. "Do you realize we just spent a whole day at a cooking contest and you never once said 'now you're cooking'? You must be slipping, Judge."

"Nah, just seemed a little obvious that's all." Hardcastle fingered his chin meditatively. "I kinda like that. Fire's a way of bringing about a change. It's up to _us _to see that the change is a good one."

McCormick grinned at him. "So an antacid is a way of changing a fire into a good thing, huh?"

"Yeah, well," the judge scratched at the side of his neck and squinted at the road ahead. "You can overdo the philosophical bit, ya know."

The sun cleared the mountains to the east as the truck headed south, bathed in a fiery light.

HAVE A HEART COOK-OFF BLUE RIBBON CHILI

1 lb. lean ground beef

1 yellow onion, chopped

1 bell pepper, chopped

1 cup cooked pinto beans

1 tbsp. peanut oil

1 16 oz. can diced tomatoes, undrained

1 8 oz. can tomato sauce

3 tbsp. chili powder

1 tbsp. cider vinegar

1 tsp. dried oregano

1 tsp. ground cumin

3 cloves garlic, minced

¼ tsp. cayenne pepper (optional)

Heat oil in large skillet or chili pot. Cook onion and bell pepper in oil until soft, then add meat and cook until browned. Drain fat, then add beans and all other ingredients. Stir until well blended. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Allow to simmer for 1 ½ hours, stirring occasionally.

For a thicker chili, add 1 tbsp. masa flour dissolved in 3 tbsp. of water 20 minutes before serving. Stir to blend. Chili may be served over rice or with corn tortillas.

For a vegetarian version, replace meat with 12 oz. ground beef substitute.


End file.
